Blazed Trail Stories, and Stories of the Wild Life

by Stewart Edward White

  V

  THE SAVING GRACE

  Once upon a time there was an editor of a magazine who had certain ideasconcerning short stories. This is not wonderful, for editors have suchideas; and when they find a short story which corresponds, they acceptit with joy and pay good sums for it. This particular editor believedthat a short story should be realistic. "Let us have things as they_are_!" he was accustomed to cry to his best friend, or the printer'sdevil, or the office cat, whichever happened to be the handiest. "Lifeis great enough to say things for itself, without having to be helpedout by the mawkish sentimentality of an idiot! Permit us to see actualpeople, living actual lives, in actual houses, and I should hope we havecommon-sense enough to draw our own morals!" He usually made thesechaotic exclamations after reading through several pages of very neatmanuscript in which the sentences were long and involved, and in whichwere employed polysyllabic adjectives of a poetic connotation. Thiseditor liked short, crisp sentences. He wanted his adjectives servedhot. He despised poetic connotation. Being only an editor, his name wasBrown. If he had been a writer, he would have had three names, beginningwith successive letters of the alphabet.

  Now, one day, it happened that there appeared before this editor, Brown,a young man bearing a roll of manuscript. How he had gotten by theoffice boy Brown could not conceive, and rolled manuscript usually gavehim spasms. The youth, however, presented a letter of introduction fromBrown's best friend. He said he had a story to submit, and he said itwith a certain appearance of breathlessness at the end of the sentence,which showed Brown that it was his first story. Brown frowned inwardly,and smiled outwardly. He begged the youth to take a seat. As all theseats were filled with unopened papers and unbound books, the youth saidhe preferred to stand.

  Brown asked the youth questions, in a perfunctory manner, not because hecared to know anything about him, but because he liked the man who hadwritten the letter. The youth's name proved to be Severne, and he wasthe most serious-minded youth who had ever stepped from college intowriting. He spoke of ideals. Brown concluded that the youth's storyprobably dealt with the time of the Chaldaean astronomers, and containeda deep symbolical truth, couched in language of the school of BulwerLytton or Marie Corelli. So, after the youth had gone, he seized theroll of manuscript, for the purpose of glancing through it. If he hadimagined the story of any merit, he would not have been in such haste;but as his best friend had introduced the writer, he thought he wouldlike to get a disagreeable task over at once.

  He glanced the story through. Then he read it carefully. Then he slammedit down hard on his desk--to the vast confusion of some hundreds ofloose memoranda, which didn't matter much, anyway--and uttered a big,bad word. The sentences in the story were short and crisp. Theadjectives were served very hot indeed. There was not a single bit ofpoetic connotation. It described life as it really was.

  Brown, the editor, published the story, and paid a good price for it.Severne, the author, wrote more stories, and sold them to Brown. The twomen got to be very good friends, and Severne heard exactly how Brownliked short stories and why, and how his, Severne's, stories were justthat kind.

  All this would have been quite an ideal condition of affairs, and anobject-lesson to a harsh world and other editors, were it not thatSeverne was serious-minded. He had absolutely no sense of humour.Perspectives there were none for him, and due proportions did not exist.He took life hard. He looked upon himself gravely as a seriousproposition, like the Nebular Hypothesis or Phonetic Reform. Theimmediate consequence was that, having achieved his success throughrealism, he placed realism on a pedestal and worshipped it as the onlytrue (literary) god. Severne became a realist of realists. He ran itinto the ground. He would not describe a single incident that he had notviewed from start to finish with his own eyes. He did not have much todo with feelings _direct_, but such as were necessary to his story heinsisted on experiencing in his own person; otherwise the story remainedunwritten. And as for emotions--such as anger, or religion, or fear--hewould attempt none whose savour he had not tasted for himself. Unkindand envious rivals--not realists--insisted that once Severne haddeliberately gotten very drunk on Bowery whiskey in order that he mightdescribe the sensations of one of his minor characters in such acondition. Certain it is, he soon gained the reputation among theunintelligent of being a crazy individual, who paid people remarkablywell to do strange and meaningless things for him. He was alwaysexperimenting on himself and others.

  This was ridiculous enough, but it would hardly have affected anyone butcrusty old cranks who delight in talking about "young fools," were itnot for the fact that Severne was in love. And that brings us to thepoint of our story.

  Of course he was in love in a most serious-minded fashion. He did notget much fun out of it. He brooded most of the time over lovers' dutiesto each other and mankind. He had likewise an exalted conception of thesacred, holy, and lofty character of love itself. This is commendable,but handicaps a man seriously. Girls do not care for that kind of loveas a steady thing. Far be it from me to insinuate that those quiteangelic creatures ever actually want to be kissed; but if, by any purely_accidental_ chance, circumstances bring it about that, without theirconsent or suspicion, a brute of a man _might_ surprise themawfully--well, said brute does not gain much by not springing thesurprise. Being adored on a pedestal is nice--in public. So you must seethat Severne's status in ordinary circumstances would be precarious.Conceive his fearful despair at finding his heart irrevocably committedto a young lady as serious-minded as himself, equally lacking in humour,and devoted mind and soul to the romantic or idealistic school offiction! They often discussed the point seriously and heatedly. Eachtried conscientiously to convert the other. As usual, the attempt, aftera dozen protracted interviews, ended in the girl's losing her temper.This made Severne angry. Girls are so unreasonable!

  "What do you suppose I care how your foolish imaginary people brushtheir teeth and button their suspenders and black their boots? I knowhow old man Smith opposite does, and that is more than enough for me!"she cried.

  "The insight into human nature expresses itself thus," he argued,gloomily.

  "Rubbish!" she rejoined. "The idea of a man's wasting the talents heavenhas given him in describing as minutely and accurately as he can all thenasty, little, petty occurrences of everyday life! It is sordid!"

  "The beautiful shines through the dreariness, as it does in the reallife people live," he objected, stubbornly.

  "The beautiful is in the imagination," she cried, with some heat; "andthe imagination is God-given; it is the only direct manifestation of thedivine on earth. Without imagination no writing can have life."

  As this bordered on sentiment, abhorred of realism, Severne mutteredsomething that sounded like "fiddlesticks." They discussed the relationof imagination to literature on this latter basis. At the conclusion ofthe discussion, Miss Melville, for that was her name, delivered thefollowing ultimatum:

  "Well, I tell you right now, Robert Severne, that I'll never marry a manwho has not more soul in him than that. I am very much disappointed inyou. I had thought you possessed of more nobility of character!"

  "Don't say that, Lucy," he begged, in genuine alarm. Serious-mindedyouths never know enough not to believe what a girl says.

  "I will say that, and I mean it! I never want to see you again!"

  "Does that mean that our engagement is broken?" he stammered, not daringto believe his ears.

  "I should think, sir, that a stronger hint would be unnecessary."

  He bowed his head miserably. "Isn't there anything I can do, Lucy? Idon't want to be sent off like this. I _do_ love you!"

  She considered. "Yes, there is," she said, after a moment. "You canwrite a romantic story and publish it in a magazine. Then, and not untilthen, will I forgive you."

  She turned coldly, and began to examine a photograph on the mantelpiece.After an apparently interminable period, receiving no reply, she turnedsharply.

  "Well!" she demanded.

 
Now, in the interval, Severne had been engaged in building a hasty butinteresting mental pose. He had recalled to mind numerous historical andfictitious instances in which the man has been tempted by the woman todepart from his heaven-born principles. In some of these instances, whenthe woman had tempted successfully, the man had dwelt thenceforth inmisery and died in torment, amid the execrations of mankind. In others,having resisted the siren, he had glowed with a high and exaltedhappiness, and finally had ascended to upper regions between applaudingranks of angels--which was not realism in the least. Art, said Severneto himself, is an enduring truth. Human passions are misleading.Self-sacrifice is noble. He resolved on the spot to become a martyr tohis art.

  "I will never do it!" he answered, and stalked majestically from theroom.

  Severne took his trouble henceforward in a becomingly serious-mindedmanner. For many years he was about to live shrouded in gloom--a gloomin whose twilight could be dimly discerned the shattered wreck of hislife. After a long period, from the _debris_ of said wreck, he wouldbuild the structure of a great literary work of art, which all mankindwould look upon with awe, but which he, standing apart, would eye withindifference, all joy being stricken dead by his memories of the past.But that was in the future. Just now he was in the gloom business. So,being a wealthy youth, he decided to go far, far away. This wasnecessary in order that he might bury his grief.

  He rather fancied battle-fields and carnage, but there were no wars. Itwould add to the picture if he could return bronzed and battle-scarred,but as that was impossible, he resolved to return bronzed, at any rate.So he bought a ticket to a small town in Wyoming. There he and hissteamer-trunk boarded Thompson's stage, and journeyed to Placer Creek,where the two of them, he and the trunk, took up their quarters in alittle board-ceiled room in the Prairie Dog Hotel.

  The place was admirably adapted for glooming. It was a ramshackle affairof four streets and sixteen saloons. Some of the houses, and all of thesaloons, had once been painted. In front were hitching-rails. To thehitching-rails, at all times of the day, were tied ponies patientlyturning their tails to the Wyoming breezes. Wyoming breezes are alwaysgoing somewhere at the rate of from thirty to sixty miles an hour.Beyond the town, in one direction, were some low mountains, wellsupplied with dark gorges, narrow canons, murmuring water-falls, dashingbrooks, and precipitous descents. Beyond the town, in the otherdirection, lay a broad, rolling country, on which cattle and cowboysdwelt amid profanity and dust. Severne arose in a cold room, washed hisface in hard water, and descended to breakfast. The breakfast could nothave been better adapted to beginning a day of gloom. It started outwith sticky oatmeal, and ended with clammy cakes, between which wasmuch horror. After breakfast, he wandered in the dark gorges, narrowcanons, _et cetera_, and contemplated with melancholy but approvinginterest his noble sacrifice and the wreck of his life. Thence hereturned to town.

  In town, various incomprehensible individuals with a misguided sense ofhumour did things to him, the reason of which he could not understand inthe least, mainly because he had himself no sense of humour, misguidedor otherwise. The things they did frightened and bewildered him. But heexamined them gravely through his shortsighted spectacles, noting justhow they were done, just how their perpetrators looked and acted, andjust how he felt.

  After some days his literary instincts perforce awoke. In spite of hisgloom, he caught himself sifting and assorting and placing things intheir relative values. In fine, he began to conceive a Western story.Shortly after, he cleaned his fountain pen, by inserting a thin cardbetween the gold and the rubber feeder, and sat down to write. As hewrote he grew more and more pleased with the result. The sentencesbecame crisper and crisper. The adjectives fairly sizzled. Poeticconnotation faded as a mountain mist. And he remembered and describedjust how Alkali Ike spit through his mustache--which was disgusting,but real. It was his masterpiece. He wrote on excitedly. Never was sucha short story!

  But then there came a pause. He had successfully mounted his hero, andstarted him in full flight down the dark gorge or narrow canon--I forgetwhich--pursued by the avenging band. There interposed here a frightfuldifficulty. He did not know how a man felt when pursued by an avengingband. He had never been pursued by an avenging band himself. What was heto do? To be sure, he could imagine with tolerable distinctness thesensations to be experienced in such a crisis. He could have put them onpaper with every appearance of realism. But he had no touchstone bywhich to test their truth. He might be unconsciously false to his art,to which he had vowed allegiance at such cost! It would never do.

  So, naturally, he did the obvious thing--that is to say, the obviousthing to a serious-minded writer with no sense of humour. He went forthand sought an acquaintance named Colorado Jim, and made to him aproposition. It took Severne just two hours and six drinks to persuadeColorado Jim. At the end of that time Colorado Jim, in his turn, wentforth, shaking his head doubtfully, and emitting from time to timecavernous chuckles which bubbled up from his interior after thewell-known manner of the "Old Faithful" geyser. He hunted out sixpartners of his own--"pards," he called them--to whom he spoke atlength. The six pards stared at Colorado Jim in gasping silence for sometime. Then the seven went into a committee of the whole. The decision ofthe committee was that the tenderfoot was undoubtedly crazy, harmless,and to be humoured--at a price. Besides, the humouring would be fun.After a number of drinks, Colorado Jim and the pards concluded that itwould be _lots_ of fun!

  Early the next morning, they rode out of town in the direction of thehills. At the entrance to the dark gorge--or deep canon--they metSeverne, also mounted. After greetings, the latter distributed certainsmall articles.

  "Now," said he, most gravely, "I will ride ahead about as far as thatrock there, and when I get ready to start, I will wave my hand. You'reto chase me just as you'd chase a real horse-thief, and I'll try to keepahead of you. You keep shooting with the blank cartridges as fast as youcan. Understand?"

  They said they did. They did not. But it was fun.

  Severne rode to the bowlder in the dark gorge--I am sure it was the darkgorge--and turned. The pards were lined up in eagerness for the start.They had made side bets as to who would get there first. He waved hishand, and struck spurs to his horse. The pursuit began.

  The horse on which Severne was mounted was a good one. The way heclimbed up through that dark gorge was a caution to thoroughbreds.Behind whooped the joyous seven, and the cracking of pistols was adelight to the ear. The outfit swept up the gulch like a whirlwind.

  Severne became quite excited. The swift motion was exhilarating. Hementally noted at least a hundred and ten most realistic minor details.He felt that his money had not been wasted. And then he noticed that hewas gradually drawing ahead of his pursuit. Better and better! He wouldnot only experience pursuit, but he would achieve in his own person agenuine escape, for he knew that, whatever the mythical character of thebullets, the Westerners had a real enough intention of racing each otherand him to the top of the ridge. He plied his quirt, and looked back.The pursuers were actually dropping behind. Even to his inexperiencedeye their animals showed signs of distress.

  At this place the narrow gulch divided. Severne turned to the left, asbeing more nearly level. Down from the right-hand bisection came theboys of the Triangle X outfit.

  To the boys of the Triangle X outfit but one course was open. Here wereColorado Jim and the pards on foundered horses, pursuing a rapidindividual who was escaping only too easily. Never desert a comrade. TheTriangle X boys uttered whoops, and joined the game at speed. Notgaining as rapidly as they wished, they produced long revolvers--andbegan to shoot. It is a little difficult to hit anything from a runninghorse. Severne heard the reports, and congratulated himself on therealistic qualities of his little drama. Then suddenly his hat wentspinning from his head. At the same instant a bullet ploughed throughthe leather on his pommel. Zip! zip! went other bullets past his ears.The boys of Triangle X outfit were beginning to get the range.

  He looked back. T
o his horror he discovered that Colorado Jim and thepards had disappeared, and that their places had been taken by a numberof maniacs on jumping little ponies. The maniacs were yelling "Yip!Yip! Yip!" and shooting at him. He could not understand it in the least;but the bullets were mighty convincing. He used his quirt and spurs.

  If Severne really wished to experience the feelings of a man pursued, heattained his desire. It is not pleasant to be shot at. Severneentertained sensations of varied coherence, but one and all of avividness which was of the greatest literary value. Only he was not in amood to appreciate literary values. He attended strictly to business,which was to lift the excellent animal on which he was mounted asrapidly as possible over the ground. In this he attained a moderatesuccess. Venturing a backward glance, after a few moments, he noted withpleasure that the distance between himself and the maniacs had sensiblyincreased. Then one of those zipping bullets passed between his body andhis arm, cut off three heavy locks of the horse's mane, and entered thebase of the poor animal's skull. Severne suddenly found himself in theroad. The maniacs swept up at speed, reining in suddenly at the distanceof three feet, in such a manner as to scatter much gravel over him.Severne sat up.

  The maniacs, with commendable promptness, jerked Severne to his feet.Several more bent over his horse.

  "Jess's I thought!" shouted one of these. "Jess's I thought! He's stolethis cayuse. This is Hank Smith's bronc. I'd know him any-whar!"

  "That's right! Bar O brand!" cried several.

  Then men who held him yanked Severne here and there. "End of yore ropethis trip! Steal hosses, will ye!" said they.

  "I didn't steal the horse!" cried poor Severne; "I hired him fromSmith."

  A roar of laughter greeted this statement.

  "Hired Colorado and the boys to chase you, too, didn't ye!" suggestedone, with heavy sarcasm.

  "Yes, I did," answered Severne, sincerely.

  They laughed again. "Nerve!" said they.

  Near the fallen horse several began discussing the affair. "I tell you I_know_ I done it!" argued one. "I ketched him between the sights, jest'sfair as could be."

  "G'wan, he flummuxed jest's _I_ cut loose!"

  "Well, boys," called the leader, impatiently, "get along!"

  A man came forward, and silently threw a loop about Severne's neck. InWyoming they hang horse-thieves. Severne realised this, and told themall about everything. They listened to him, and laughed delightedly.Never had they hanged such a funny horse-thief. They appreciated hisefforts to amuse them, and assured him often that he was a peach. Whenhe paused, they encouraged him to say some more. At every new disclosurethey chuckled with admiration, as though at a tremendous but splendidlie. Severne was getting more realistic experience in ten minutes thanhe had had in all his previous life; but realistic experience does notdo one much good at the end of a rope on top of a Wyoming mountain.Then, after a little, they deftly threw the coil of rope over the limbof a tree, and hung him up, and left him. They did not shoot him full ofholes, as is the usual custom. He had been a funny horse-thief, so inreturn they were lenient. Severne kicked. "Dancin' good," they observed,as they turned the corner.

  Around the corner they met the frantic James. They cut Severne down, andworked over him for some time. Then they carried him down to PlacerCreek, and worked over him a lot more. The Triangle X boys weredistinctly aggrieved. They had applauded those splendid lies, and nowthey turned out not to be lies at all, but merely an extremely crazysort of truth. They relieved their feelings by getting very drunk andshooting out the lights.

  It took Severne a week to get over it. Ten days after that he returnedEast. He had finished a masterpiece. The flight down the canon waspictured so vividly that you could almost hear the crack of the pistols,and the hero's sentiments were so well described that in reading aboutthem you became excited yourself. Severne read it three times, and hethought it as good the third time as the first. Then he copied it allout on the typewriter. This is the severest test a writer can give hiswork. The most sparkling tale loses its freshness when run through themachine, especially if the unfortunate author cannot make the thing govery fast. It seemed as good even after this ordeal.

  "Behold," said he, congratulating himself, "this is the best story Iever wrote! Blamed if it isn't one of the best stories I ever _read_!Your romanticists claim that the realistic story has no charm, norexcitement, nor psychical thrill. This'll show them!"

  So he hurried to deliver it to Brown. Then he posed industriously tohimself, and tried hard to do some more glooming, but it was difficultwork. Someway he felt his cause not hopeless. This masterpiece would gofar to convince her that he was right after all.

  Three days later he received a note from Brown asking him to call. Hedid so. The editor handed him back his story, more in sorrow than inanger, and spoke reprovingly about deserting one's principles. Brown wasconscientious. He believed that the past counted nothing in face of thepresent. Severne pressed for an explanation. Then said Brown:

  "Severne, I have used much of your stuff, and I have liked it. Thesentences have been crisp. The adjectives have been served hot. You haveeschewed poetic connotation. And, above all, you have shown men and lifeas they are. I am sorry to see that you have departed from that nobleideal."

  "But," cried Severne, in expostulation, "do not these qualities appearin my story?"

  "At first they do," responded Brown, "but later--ah!" He sighed.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The ride down the canon," he explained. "The sentences are crisp andthe adjectives hot. But, alas! there is much poetic connotation, and, sofar from representing real life, it seems to me only the perperoidlucubrations of a disordered imagination."

  "Why, that part is the most realistic in the whole thing!" cried theunhappy author, in distress.

  "No," replied the editor, firmly, "it is not. It is not realism at all.Even if there were nothing objectionable about the incident, the man'sfeelings are frightfully overdrawn. No man ever was such an everlastingcoward as you make out your hero! I should be glad to see something elseof yours--but that, no!"

  Somewhat damped, Severne took his manuscript home with him. There here-read it. All his old enthusiasm returned. It was exactly true.Realism could have had no more accurate exposition of its principles. Hecursed Brown, and inclosed stamps to the _Decade_. After a time hereceived a check and a flattering letter. Realism stood vindicated!

  In due course the story appeared. During the interim Severne had foundthat his glooming was becoming altogether too realistic for his peace ofmind. As time went on and he saw nothing of Lucy Melville, he began torealise that perhaps, after all, he was making a mistake somewhere. Atcertain recklessly immoral moments he even thought a very little ofproving false to art. To such depths can the human soul descend!

  The evening after the appearance of his story in the _Decade_, he wassitting in front of his open fire in very much that mood. The lamps hadnot been lighted. To him came Mortimer, his man. "A leddy to see you,sir; no name," he announced, solemnly.

  Severne arose in some surprise. "Light the lamp, and show her up," hecommanded, wondering who she could be.

  At the sound of his voice, the visitor pushed into the room pastMortimer.

  "Never mind the lamp," cried Lucy Melville. The faithful Mortimer leftthe room, and--officially--heard no more.

  "Why, Lucy!" cried Severne.

  In the dim light he could see that her cheeks were glowing withexcitement. She crossed the room swiftly, and put her hands on hisshoulders. "Bob," she said, gravely, with tears in her eyes, "I know Iought not to be here, but I just couldn't help it! After you were sonoble! And it won't matter, for I'm going in just a minute."

  Severne cast his mind back in review of his noble acts. "What is it,Lucy?" he inquired.

  "As if you could ask!" she cried. "I never knew of a man's doing sotactful and graceful and _beautiful_ a thing in my life! And I don'tcare a bit, and I believe you were right, after all."

  "Right about w
hat?" he begged, getting more and more bewildered.

  "About the realism, of course."

  She looked up at him again, pointing out her chin in the most adorablefashion. Even serious-minded men have moments of lucidity. Severne hadone now.

  "Oh, no, you mustn't, Bob--dear!" she cried, blushing.

  "But really, Bob," she went on, after a moment, "even if realism is allright, you must admit that your last story is the best thing you everwrote."

  "Why, yes, I do think so," he agreed, wondering what that had to do withit.

  "I'm so glad you do. Do you know, Bob," she continued, happily, "I readit all through before I noticed whose it was. And I kept saying tomyself, 'I _do_ wish Bob could see this story. I'm sure it wouldconvince him that imagination is better than realism'; for really, Bob,"she cried, with enthusiasm, "it is the best imaginative story I everread. And when I got to the end, and saw the signature, and realisedthat you had deserted your literary principles just for my sake, andhad actually gone to work and written such a _splendid_ imaginativestory after all you had said; and then, too, when I realised what adelicate way you had taken to let me know--because, of course, I neverread that magazine of Brown's--oh, Bob!" she concluded, quite out ofbreath.

  Severne hesitated for almost a minute. He saw his duty plainly; he wasserious-minded; he had no sense of humour. Then she looked up at him asbefore, pointing her chin out in the most adorable fashion.

  "Oh, Bob! Again! I really don't think you ought to!"

  And Art; oh, where was it?